


this is how a sin begins

by ifinkufreaky



Series: Ivar and the Maidens [7]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Master & Servant, Seduction, the power imbalance is too great to allow proper consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-16 16:03:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11256306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: You are a maidservant in a Saxon castle overrun by Vikings. Prince Ivar decides to stay here for the winter, and he has seen you looking at him. He asks you to draw him a bath and engages you in an increasingly-naked debate over this strange Christian concept of "sin" as it pertains to the act of love.Usually my one-shots only have one chapter, but this scene is so detailed that the word count is egregious and I'm splitting it in two. Also, a reminder that each work in Ivar and the Maidens is a free-standing one-shot that has nothing to do with any of the others.





	1. Chapter 1

Serving these heathens had not turned out to be as bad as you had feared. When the Viking horde had broke the siege on the castle and started fighting their way through the corridors toward your king, you had taken refuge in the kitchen with the other serving girls behind the wide shelter of Madge’s skirt. The cook was a formidable woman who had managed to deter every pillaging raider that had stumbled in with only her stern glare and a heft of her rolling pin.

She saved the virtue of all you girls that day, Christ be praised. And she continued to watch over the five of you now that the Godforsaken heathens had decided to spend the winter here, taking over not only the old king’s accommodations but also his rich stores of food and the hospitality of his efficient staff.

And so your castle became the seat of this bloodthirsty army, led by the one with the face of an angel and the soul of a monster that they called Prince Ivar. Behind his back they called him “ _Ìvar Beinlausi_.” One of the other girls had befriended one of the few of them that spoke a bit of Saxon, despite Madge’s disapproving frowns, and he told her the epithet meant “boneless.” You assumed this was due to the fact that he was crippled. The man could barely use his legs at all, though that in no way prevented him from being one of the most frightening people you had ever met. The day he conquered your castle he was carried in on a shield, but now that the battle was done you were just as likely to see him traveling about alone, dragging himself through the stone corridors of the castle and frightening all of the maids half to death.

You had taken to crossing yourself whenever he passed by you. The other invaders were just men, crude and jovial, ferocious but fairly good-natured. Not that one. Prince Ivar stalked about like there was a devil in him and you and the other girls just did your best to keep his evil eye from ever falling on you.

His gaze made you feel so strange; hot and cold both at once. As you served him you had started a secret game, to see how long you could look at him without him noticing. You were terrified of his eyes falling on you but you could barely tear your own away from him. He was the most beautiful youth you had ever seen, and also the most tormented. When he thought no one was looking emotions flitted across his face like lightning. Bitterness, regret, rage. Sadness quickly covered with a cruel smirk. You constantly wondered what he was thinking about.

You were more excited and more nervous than ever before, to play your little game tonight. You were hauling a bucket of scalding-hot water up the stairs to Ivar’s chamber, the one that used to belong to your king. The heathen had asked you to draw him a bath and though Madge clucked her tongue when she heard of it she only shook her head and started heating the water.

These Vikings did not understand decorum, or modesty. They should not have been asking young girls to help them bathe, or dress; but even their princes had brought no manservants and only smirked when Madge tried to angrily explain the problem in the broken Norse she had started to pick up.

But personally, you found that you were more excited than you were outraged when you entered Prince Ivar’s chamber and found him already loosening his armor. He had been training in the courtyard today and he was splotched with dirt and dried sweat. As you carried your bucket past him toward the heavy wooden tub, you leaned in slightly to catch his heavy, musky scent. This devil made your body tingle in ways you did not quite understand, though you did know that they were sinful.

As you poured the steaming water into the deep tub, he spoke. “Is it ready?” he asked in heavily accented Saxon. He sounded weary, and impatient.

The tub was only half-full. “I was going to bring a few more buckets, my Lord,” you squeaked. As you finished pouring Ivar strained his neck to look over the edge of the tub, one cold eyebrow raised as he assessed.

“That is enough, there,” he decided.

You curtsied and started to scurry away, assuming you were dismissed.

Ivar called your name sharply and you froze. You had no idea he even knew it. You felt his eyes itching between your raised shoulderblades before you gathered enough courage to turn around again. “My Lord?”

Whatever the heathen saw in your face when you turned, it seemed to please him greatly. He settled back against his elbow and cocked his head to the side. “You have to help me, y/n. How am I going to get these crippled legs over the side of that...?” He gestured with twirling fingers toward the steaming wooden vessel, evidently not knowing the word.

You were thrown off by the familiar tone coming out of his fearsome face. “’Tub,’ my Lord,” you said, dropping your head meekly. It was always dangerous to correct your betters, you knew from hard experience, even if they seemed to be asking you for it.

Ivar only smiled, a heart-stoppingly beautiful thing that cracked the gloom of his face for one glittering moment. “Tub. Yes. You need to stay and help me with the tub.” Then he continued to stare at you, waiting for you to move. To come to him. The jovial angle of his mouth did not change but the smile faded out of his eyes, turning to something colder that reminded you of a cat staring at a mouse.

It was so inappropriate. Good Christian girls did not help strange men take off their clothes, especially not wild heathens that did not know any of God’s laws. This beast might do anything to you if you stepped over there.

Your entire body thrilled at the thought.

Approval warmed the corners of Ivar’s eyes when you set down the empty bucket and stepped softly up to his side. “What do you need, my Lord?”

“Remove my armor,” he said, indicating the straps across his chest that he had not yet unbuckled. As you lifted your fingers to the cold metal beneath his chin, Ivar leaned back on his hands, giving you room to work and him more space to study your face as you did so. You were proud to see your hands shaking only a little as you worked the aging leather through the buckles; you did not dare lift your eyes to his face but you could feel his interest in you. Every noble lady you had ever assisted looked past you, or through you, as if you were not even a person in the room. Ivar’s attention, on the other hand, seemed incredibly personal.

_This is how a sin begins,_ some voice rang in your head. You had no experience with men aside from pushing them away or twisting out of rough and groping hands, but you knew why Madge did her best to keep you girls from ever being alone with them. You knew what they wanted. Now here you were, right in harm’s way, but it felt different than you had expected. You thought it would be terrifying to be at risk of losing your virtue, but standing next to this mysterious pagan you mostly just felt excited.

You released the final strap and Ivar spread his shoulders, helped you open the heavy jerkin and slide it toward his arms. The movement brought your face closer to his, and you felt his breath warm your cheek. You risked meeting his eyes. He was still smiling that strange smile, something crawling in the depths of that blue that pulled at you, called to you.

You looked down quickly again, feeling like there was a bird trapped in your chest, behind your cheeks, buffeting against your skin to find its way out. You tugged the armored jacket down Ivar’s arms and he shrugged it off for you, chuckling at something to himself. You laid it by the door so you could take it down to be cleaned when Ivar was in the tub and you were done here.

“You are very beautiful, Y/N,” Ivar said when you turned back to him. You blinked hard, unable to handle such a compliment from the very lord of the castle, and you nothing but a serving girl. When you didn’t react his brows furrowed in a way that was almost cute. “Is this the right word, beautiful?” he asked, holding his hand out for you to come back to his side.

“Yes, m’Lord,” you answered, unsure of what else to say. When you reached him Ivar held up one of his arms, indicating that you were to take off his bracer next.

The Saxon nobility insisted on being dressed and undressed, but the Vikings had been here long enough that you knew this was not their way. Ivar was making you undress him because he enjoyed it, not because he expected it, or needed the help.

It felt so much more intimate than it ever did when you helped the noble ladies; you experienced every falling strap and rustle of fabric, every new inch of pale Northern skin revealed in sharp focus, like Time itself had slowed down. Perhaps it had; perhaps this smirking demon had cast a spell on you.

When both his hands were bare, Ivar placed them on either side of your hips. You couldn’t stop yourself from inhaling sharply, body freezing in surprise at the feel of his warm palms on your body. “Is it true that all you Christian girls are virgins?” he asked. He met your eyes with a look that was almost playful, rolling his tongue between his teeth as he waited for you to respond. His hands did not grope or creep, but his intentions were clear.

You blushed and pulled away. You liked how it felt, but a warning that sounded like church bells was ringing through your body. “To know a man that is not my husband is a sin, my Lord,” you answered. You suddenly remembered the fragrant herbs on the table, that had yet to be crumbled into your lord’s bath.

“Sin,” Ivar echoed as you stepped away, voice only faintly disappointed. “We have no word like this in my language. The more I hear about what it is, the more I like it.”

You looked back at him. His head was hanging almost sideways and his face was screwed up like he was laughing at you. His fingers were curled under the bottom of his tunic and as you watched he lifted it over his head in one smooth, confident movement. You averted your eyes as quickly as you could, but the image still burned you: an expanse of rippling muscle under perfectly smooth skin, the body of a young man in his prime. You pretended that you had more work to do with the dried leaves in front of you.

“Leave that,” Ivar commanded. “Come take off my boots.”

You took a deep breath and crossed yourself surreptitiously before turning to kneel at Ivar’s feet. The Devil was tempting you, just as they had always said he would one day. You tried not to let your eyes focus on the broad expanse of Prince Ivar’s shoulders or the perfect shape of his lips. You grit your teeth and focused on removing the curious straps that bound his legs together, then set yourself to unlacing his boots. You ignored it when you felt his hand touch your hair, separating out a lock and playing with it between his fingers while you worked.

He let it go when you scooted back to draw his boots off; you did so slowly not only to delay the removal of his next bit of clothing, but also because you had no idea how fragile his legs might be. You remained crouched by Ivar’s feet and looked up at him.

He grinned smugly down at you and his hands went to loosen the top of his pants.

You rushed to stand. “I am sure you can manage the rest by yourself, my Lord,” you heard yourself say as you fled toward the tub, “I will make sure the water is ready for you.”

You heard him chuckle again, but the heathen prince did not make you come back. Embarrassment, and something else you refused to acknowledge wormed through your belly as you heard the soft scrapes of movement and the rustling of clothing behind you. Crushing the fragrant leaves between your hands before dropping them in to the water, you tried to catch your breath as you told yourself this would all be over soon. All you had to do was get him into the tub without looking down at his nakedness.

“Y/N,” Ivar called softly after a moment. “Turn around. Seeing a man is not knowing him. Surely that cannot be a ‘sin.’ Besides, it is perfectly normal, where I come from.”

“Perfectly normal for a woman to see a man naked?” you asked, so surprised that you relaxed a little, were finally able to allow yourself to turn around. It wasn’t like you had never happened to see a cock before, of course. You had just never had one… revealed to you, in private, like this.

“Perfectly normal,” Ivar affirmed. His posture was entirely relaxed, arms spread wide. You couldn’t help but look. His cock rested against his thigh, nestled against a base of dark curls between his skinny legs. Ivar was not acting like he was embarrassed of them either, as twisted and emaciated as they were.

His confidence was exhilarating, and a little bit infectious. You allowed yourself a slow smile, drew your body up a bit straighter. “Your bath is ready, my Lord,” you announced. You thought your voice sounded almost saucy. Then your eyes fell to the discarded clothing strewn about on the floor. “Just allow me to pick these things up before I help you over to it.” The last thing you needed was to trip on something.

Ivar nodded his head and watched you like a hawk as you scurried about at his feet. You told yourself you weren’t looking but your eyes kept sliding back to his prick. Every time you glanced back it seemed to be bigger. You wondered what it would feel like to touch it. You wondered how something like that would possibly fit inside that place between your legs.

The place in question suddenly felt flooded with warmth. You weren’t sure what it meant but you assumed it was something the priest would tell you was wrong to be feeling for this godless Viking brute. You piled all of the prince’s clothes by the door, for cleaning, took a deep breath and turned back to face him.

The smirk had returned to Ivar’s face, and your breath caught in your throat when you saw that his member was pointing straight into the air now. He had one hand wrapped lazily around the base of the thing and it looked positively enormous. “Have you ever even touched a man’s cock, Y/N?” he asked.

You felt your face flush as you tried hard not to look down again, focusing only on his face. “No, Prince Ivar,” you told him honestly. Your fingers twisted in the plain fabric of your skirt.

The devilish youth flashed those pearly white teeth at you in a sharp smile. “Do not worry, I will teach you. Come over here and touch mine.”

When you met Saint Peter at the gates to heaven, you would tell him that you did it because the heathen was the master here; you were only following orders. Surely your soul wouldn’t be punished too severely for falling prey to simple coercion. But your heart knew already that you were stepping forward because you wanted to; that you stretched your trembling hand out toward his body because you craved it. Because you wanted to do whatever those beautiful lips told you to. Ivar slid his arm around your waist, pulling you in closer.

You hesitated just as your palm hovered over his shaft. “The bath will get cold,” you fretted inanely.

“I do not care,” he murmured, brushing his cheek against your shoulder and pressing his hips up toward you. “Wrap your clever little fingers around it for me.” Then he groaned softly as you slid your hand over him.

You were surprised at how smooth and soft the skin felt, sliding a little over a much harder core. You looked up at him to make sure this was alright. Ivar smiled and pulled you a little closer, eyes starting to look something like sleepy, or drunk.

 He let you explore freely for a while. The tip was darker than the rest, shaped somewhat like the angled cap of a mushroom. Every time you brushed it he sighed, like that was the best part.

“Do you know how good it feels to a man when you touch his prick, y/n, how happy that makes him?”

“Everyone knows that,” you giggled.

Ivar squeezed your hip almost painfully. “I thought English maids were trained not to talk back.”

“O-of course not, my Lord,” you rushed, slowing your hand. You had started to feel comfortable but now he was making you nervous again. This was, after all, the man that had butchered the guards and executed your king. Perhaps you shouldn’t be doing this.

He wrapped his hand over yours before you could pull it away, however. “Don’t stop.” His voice was low and urgent. You could almost hear a “please” at the end that he had bit back at the last moment. His hand settled over yours and squeezed your fingers around his shaft. “Let me show you what feels really good.”

With a practiced twist of his wrist, Ivar drew your cupped hand up and down, dragging the loose skin firmly over the thick core at the center of his member. His fingers pinched over the sensitive tip at the top of every stroke. It felt so strange; this odd, sinful thing against your palm, the heathen’s strong hand trapping you into giving him pleasure enough to make him hum softly.

His breaths started coming heavier. “Now you try.” He released your hand and started stroking all over your body as you tentatively continued the task. You did your best to mimic his movements exactly, though the feeling of his hands on your belly and breasts was making you feel that strange kind of sleepy too. Why didn’t anyone tell you being fondled wasn’t always unpleasant?

Ivar’s eyes were closed now, his face fluttering between two warring expressions. In one moment he would look like you were sending him to Heaven, the next like he were straining toward something he couldn’t quite reach. Somehow you felt that the right thing to do would be to kiss him.

You had only kissed a boy once before, and it had given you a faint echo of the wild energy that you were feeling now, the one that was like strong drink or sleepiness but not exactly either one. Without breaking the rhythm of your hand, you leaned in and pressed your lips to the heathen’s angelic face, just to see how it would feel.

Warm, petal-soft, and Prince Ivar’s eyes flew open in surprise. You felt his whole body hesitate and so you slowed your hand on his cock. He grabbed your jaw and pulled you a few inches away, studying your eyes. You were suddenly very worried you had overstepped. You were just a maid, whatever had made you think he wanted to kiss you? “Did I do something wrong, my Lord?” you stuttered.

The heathen’s face clouded over and he removed your hand from his cock. “Help me into the bath now,” was all he said.


	2. Chapter 2

You were trembling again, as you ducked your shoulder underneath Prince Ivar’s arm and helped him stumble toward the steaming tub. You were certain now that you had offended him. You knew you should be relieved that you had somehow made him relent; now you could leave this room with your virtue still intact. And yet the strongest emotion you felt was disappointment at the rejection. His prick was softening as he focused on the strenuous task of hauling himself over the wooden rim, using your shoulder for leverage as you braced your body against his pressure.

The heathen let out an appreciative groan as he sank into the warm, fragrant water. His eyes closed as he savored it, so you thought this would be a good time to make your escape.

His hand flew out and caught your wrist as you turned. “And where are you going now?” he asked, body still relaxed, one eyebrow cocked.

“If you have no further need of me, my Lord, I have other duties to attend to,” you said with a frantic curtsy.

“And how do you suppose I am going to get out of this tub when I am finished?”

Your stomach sank. “…I could come back?”

“You will stay here and wait on me.”

You dared to meet his eyes again. He seemed to have regained his composure from whatever it was that had bothered him about your kiss. He was looking imperious, calm and confident. And once again very curious about you. “A-as you wish, my Lord,” you stuttered, looking down at his hand still locked around your wrist. The heathen prince grunted an approval and released you.

“Do you have something for me to wash with?”

You scurried over to the table, collected the rag and the bar of lavender-scented soap. When you turned back he had that smirk again, the one you were sure came straight from the devil that lived inside his beautiful face. You didn’t know if you wanted to approach him again or run screaming from the room.

He lifted his arm from the water, beckoned you back to him with a curt flick of his wrist. His eyes roamed over your body once more as you stepped to him. “These soft Saxon kings, they have their servants wash their bodies for them, do they not?” he asked, the tip of his tongue protruding from between smiling lips as he waited for your answer.

How stupid of you, to think the temptations were done. You considered dropping to your knees and begging God for mercy right there and then, but the beast in front of you would probably think you were prostrating yourself before _him_. His bright eyes were looking at you expectantly. “They do, my Lord, but…” you realized you were about to speak out of place and it was too late to stop; Ivar inclined his head urging you to finish your sentence. “…they do not make _girls_ do it.”

Prince Ivar frowned. “You think I am treating you poorly.”

Dissatisfied, offended masters were the most dangerous. “No my Lord,” you rushed to say. “You have treated me very well. But if you tempt me into sin, you risk casting my soul into Hell.”

The demon who looked like a boy only grinned wider. “I tempt you?”

You blushed then, and shifted on your feet nervously as you decided what to say next.

“This word, tempt,” Ivar asked, tipping his head to the side, “it means ‘want,’ yes? Desire.” He swirled his hand across the surface of the water which was only barely obscuring his nakedness. His chest and shoulders, above the waterline, were now gleaming with beads of moisture that you had the strangest impulse to lick off of him.

“ _Sinful_ desire,” you corrected. “It carries a heavy price. Sinners go to Hell when they die, where they burn in the fires for all eternity.”

Ivar looked aghast. “For having sex?” he asked. “My gods would not do such a thing. They send the cowards to _Hel,_ ” he said, the word sounding similar but accented differently, “but it is not a painful place.” He leaned against the back of the tub, closed his eyes. “Your god sounds terrible. You should pray to mine instead.”

You almost dropped the soap. Such blasphemy, rolling so easily off his tongue. “Your gods are false,” you heard yourself say, piety winning out over fear of angering him now.

Ivar opened his eyes with a distasteful glare. “If my gods are false, why am I the master here? Why is your Christian king’s head on a spike on _my_ gate? Surely my gods are more powerful than yours.” He lifted his eyebrow impishly. “Maybe if you please me, my gods will protect you from yours.”

“Blasphemy,” was all you could whisper.

The heathen prince lifted his hand again, rolling his eyes. “Shut your mouth and come wash me, before the water gets cold.”

You looked down at the soap and cloth in your hands. You could refuse, hand them over to him and flee from the room, but it would probably earn you a lashing for disobedience. Perhaps Madge would be merciful, since she did not want you in this position anyway, but… you realized with a fateful little shiver that a part of you was welcoming this excuse to spend a little more time with Prince Ivar. He had started to tempt you into sinning with him, yes, but he was the one that had stopped it. That part was over and your soul was safe. Now he was only asking you to wash his body, which was not a sinful act at all. Christian kindness, certainly it was good to show that. Even to a heathen.

Prince Ivar smiled at you as you rolled up your sleeves. You wondered if he meant the smile to appear harmless or reassuring. It did not. His even teeth were sharp as a wolf’s and even at rest he carried with him the air of a man who was capable of just about anything. You dunked the cloth and soap in the warm water. Shallowly, keeping your hand far away from what you knew to be lurking underneath.

Not that it had been unpleasant to touch it. You felt an odd tingling in the back of your thighs as you remembered what his hardened cock had felt like under your hand.

Ivar lifted both arms from the water and laid them along the edges of the tub, readying himself for you. Nervously you rubbed the bar of soap into the cloth a few times, then balanced it on the wide wooden rim near his feet.

You laid the cloth on his forearm first, rubbing it slowly over the contours of the fine muscles beneath the skin, admiring a prominent vein. It was time to play your game again, the one of long, admiring looks. Ivar sighed as you ran the cloth up to his shoulder, settled in and closed his eyes. You were free to inspect his warrior’s body, explore the heavy muscles across his chest.

You felt your own body begin to relax. Prince Ivar was still and silent and with his eyes closed you were free to inspect the angle of his cheekbones, the perfect arch of his brow. He had the most beautiful lips you had ever seen. You realized you longed to kiss them again. Whatever had been the reason he had stopped you?

You brought the cloth down the other arm, twisted it around his fingers to wash his hands. His grip twitched like he was trying to catch your hand in his but you only shivered and carried on with your task; when you glanced at his face again his eyes were open and twinkling with laughter.

“You are staring at me. Why do you stare?”

“You said that it was not a sin, my Lord,” you said, releasing his hand and lifting the soap from the foot of the tub. You rubbed the fragrant bar into the cloth as the demon’s glittering eyes inspected you. “If you would, my Lord, lean forward and I shall wash your back.”

Ivar’s smile gleamed as he leaned toward you, and for a moment you found yourself wishing he would pull you into the tub with him. He rested his elbows on the rim, his face so close to yours now. “I have seen you looking at me, all the time. Whenever we are in the same room.” He tipped his head. “You may look at me as much as you like. Does it feel good to get what you want, y/n?”

His smile was lascivious again, but twisted with that sadness you had often observed when he thought no one was watching. Instead of answering you stepped behind him, laid the soapy cloth across his broad back and tried to complete your task quickly. This temptation was turning into agony.

“Why did you kiss me?” Prince Ivar asked suddenly. All the playfulness had retreated from his voice.

Your hand paused on his back. You could only see the side of his face, and it was hard to read his expression. “I-I just… thought that was what you wanted, my Lord.”

“Oh.” You thought you heard disappointment in his tone but it was hard to be sure. He turned away from you again.

You dared to press your bare palm against his shoulderblade as your other hand continued to scrub him. “Do Vikings not kiss?”

“Enginn kyssir mig,” he muttered. You were curious, but it felt too forward to ask him to translate that thought for you. All you knew was that it had been dripping with bitterness.

You had finished washing all of the skin that you could reach, save his head and what was beneath the water. With shaking hands, you stepped around to his side again, picked up the soap and lathered the cloth again. You decided to do your best to avoid what temptation you could, holding the rag out to him. “Perhaps my Lord would like to do the rest himself?”

Ivar studied your face for a moment. “You don’t want to touch it again?” He leaned back and dropped his hand into the water. The soap now swirling on the surface obscured your view, but you could tell he was touching himself. “You have already done it once,” he added with a smirk. “If it is a sin, it is one you have already committed. Tell me, is the punishment worse if you repeat it?”

“I....I am not sure.”

Ivar lifted his hands from the water and indicated his lap, as if to say “well then?”

You were still holding the cloth out to him; you shook it a little in his face. “Please, my Lord, take it.” Your cheeks reddened just imagining reaching under the water and trying to scrub the rest of him.

Prince Ivar scowled and snatched the rag. “Let my hair out of these braids, then,” he commanded.

It was a somewhat difficult task to do without tugging too much at him as he twisted and scrubbed at himself under the water. His thick hair stood out comically when you were done, but soon he grabbed onto the edge of tub and slid down, dunking his head to wet it for you. You stepped around to grab a brush from the table as he soaked.

You hadn’t thought the heathen prince could get any more tempting, but when you turned around and saw the water running down his fair face, his eyelashes clinging together with the moisture, your heart almost stopped. You felt like you were stepping straight into the lion’s den when you returned to his side, raised the brush to his temple and began working it through the dark strands.

Prince Ivar stared at your face the entire time, his eyes drowning deep and swirling with complicated thoughts. He had said you were allowed to look at him and so you found yourself staring back as you brushed his hair, your other hand smoothing the wet strands, steadying his head. “Do you want to kiss me again?” he asked suddenly, eyes fierce and inquisitive.

You were still uncertain as to which answer he wanted and so you told the truth. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Why?” he barked.

You could only speak from your heart. “It would please me. And I want to make you happy, my Lord. You so often look sad.”

“So you pity me, then.”

You kept brushing, smoothing palm following every stroke. “Not at all, my Lord. What is there to pity? Every land you see, you conquer. You are powerful, my Lord, and you can have whatever you want.”

He smiled faintly. “Including you?”

Your hands stopped. You should say no. A good Christian woman would say no, never, not before marriage, not ever with a godless heathen. But the words would not come. Your breaths felt short, and the strange ache stabbing between your legs as you watched him lick his lips felt better than anything you could think of. Not that you could think right now.

Prince Ivar’s arms came up out of the water, dripping as he grasped lightly around your wrists and drew your hands away from their task. “Put the brush down.”

You dropped it on the floor, unable to take your eyes off of him now.

“You want to kiss me,” he asked again.

You could only nod. You felt as if you were in a trance as his hands came to your face, coaxing your body down until you were kneeling beside the tub.

“You are not afraid of me?”

“I am quite afraid, my Lord. But I am trying to be brave.”

His smile was real, then, and just for you. He tangled his fingers into the hair at the back of your head, took a gentle hold to pull you closer. He bent his face toward yours, then hesitated a moment and bit his lip. You marveled at his gentleness, that the rampaging conqueror now seemed entirely uncertain.

And so you leaned in, closed the gap between his lips on your own.

His mouth was softer than you expected, but firmed as he grew more confident. The heathen prince nipped at your lips, used the grip at the back of your head to pull you in closer, to direct the angle of your kiss. He slid his tongue across the seam of your lips, tasting you, and you opened to him without thinking. In a moment Prince Ivar was smothering you with his passion, jaw working more in the way you would expect from a conqueror. His other hand came to your collarbone, stroked up your neck.

You pulled back as soon as you could struggle free from him. The rush was too wonderful and too terrifying, unfamiliar sensations coursing through your body. “A moment, please, my Lord,” you begged.

He leaned toward you as you receded, pressed his belly against the edge of the tub. Ivar made soothing noises under his breath and tugged at your shoulders until you turned, knelt back on your feet next to the tub with your back flush against his chest. His strong arms wrapped around you. “Shh _elskan_. We can go slow.” He spoke lowly, almost directly into your ear. “Tell me more about how I make you feel.”

“I… my heart is racing.”

“Yes, I can feel it. What else?” he coaxed, fingers rubbing small circles into your waist, the other hand running up your ribs. You could feel your dress getting wet as he pressed his body into yours.

“And… between my legs, my Lord, I feel very….warm. And tingling.”

“What is ‘tingling’?” he asked, his heavy accent garbling the word.

“Um… trembling. Like a rabbit just before it runs.”

“Do you want to run?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you?”

You took a deep breath. “Because it feels good, my Lord.”

He chuckled in your ear then, and started to pull at your skirts. “I want to feel this for myself, these strange feelings between your legs.”

You should stop him. Madge would want you to stop him. But you, you did not want him to stop. You watched him draw your dress up, more and more of your bare legs appearing. You pressed your knees together on instinct, but his fingers slid between your thighs.

He sighed in your ear when he reached your mound of curls. No one had ever touched you there before, though there were a few drunken nights where men had tried. You were surprised at how gentle the heathen’s fingers were as they slid over the sensitive flesh. You relaxed a little, let your knees fall apart a bit more.

“Yes, it is warm. And so wet,” he whispered, “so wet for someone who does not wish to be tempted.” His fingertips slid deeper, found a spot that made you cry out in pleasure.

“What--” you asked, your voice sounding strange, “what are you doing, my Lord?”

“Do you like it?” he asked, pressing into that heavenly place more boldly, making you moan and squirm. You always knew there was something pleasurable down there, but also that it was a sin to try and find it yourself. This was nothing like the accidental brushes you had experienced before. The heathen had found something hidden in your folds that made heat bloom through your entire body.

“Oh, yes,” you heard yourself cry. You hadn’t used his title, but Prince Ivar did not seem to care. He pressed his fingers deeper between your thighs, giving you a welcome rest from the intensity that had you squirming. He circled your opening, the source of the wetness you could feel now, then started pressing those blunt fingertips up inside. “My Lord!” you cried, trying to pull away. That had felt good too, but also woke you to the immediacy of the danger that your virtue was in.

The heathen would not release you, but he halted the slide of his fingers. “Give yourself to me,” he urged, lips tickling your ear.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, just as it seemed every fiber of your being was screaming at you to push yourself down over his hand.

The heathen sucked in a breath, then removed his hand from between your legs just as suddenly. “I am done with this bath,” he announced. “Dry me and help me back to the bed.”

It took you a moment to get your trembling legs to move properly. You retrieved a towel without looking at him, gathered the few shreds of dignity you had left before you turned back to him.

The heathen prince was smirking at you again. The soap had dissipated enough that you could see his prick standing at attention, the tip barely poking through the surface of the water. You were seized with the sudden image of yourself splashing onto his lap, wondered again what that monstrosity would feel like if it pressed into you.

You feared the sharpness of his tongue even more, but the heathen prince remained silent as you dried his head and shoulders. Seeing as he could not stand, you could think of no good way to dry the rest of him before helping him to the bed, however. You set the towel to the side.

“Hold the tub steady,” Ivar directed. “I will pull myself up onto the side.”

You couldn’t help yourself, had to watch the strong muscles of his back flex as he pulled himself up, swiveled his legs over the edge. He had said you could look all you wanted, after all. Then he lifted his arm for you to set your shoulder underneath, helping him hobble over to the bed.

You tried not to look at his bobbing cock, rushed quickly for the towel so that you could dry the rest of him off. “I have gotten you quite wet,” Ivar observed as you tried to avoid touching his prick while keeping it covered with a corner of the towel at the same time. His pointer finger landed on your thigh; a large swath of your skirt was dark and clinging to your leg. He must have splashed you on the way out of the tub.

“It is alright, my Lord,” you said quickly, tucking the towel across his lap and standing up straight again. It made a tent over his erection that might have been comical if it wasn’t causing another flood of heat through your core.

“You must take off your dress and hang it by the fireplace to dry,” Prince Ivar said matter-of-factly.

“But I have nothing to change into, my Lord.”

He tipped his head to the side. “What does that matter? You can lay under my blanket here.”

You wanted that more than anything but you were still trying to be strong. If you got into this heathen’s bed there would be no stopping him. At that point your fate would be sealed. “I am certain that I’ll be needed back in the kitchens by now,” you tried.

“You are needed right here,” Ivar said firmly. “I am the master in this place and no one will question what I do with you.”

And that was the plain and simple truth. You tried to summon your outrage one last time, but all you could think was _then it’s his choice, not mine. I am not responsible for what he does with me_. Just the excuse your rebellious body was longing for.

“Take off your dress. I want to see you.”

You flushed, clutched at your neckline.

“Did we not already established that looking is not a sin, _elskan_?”

The idea of this heathen’s eyes roaming all over your naked flesh was making your knees weak, and not from fear. You shook your head and turned away from him, started loosening the ties that held your dress on. You heard him moving on the bed behind you, the creaking sounds of the bedframe bringing fresh heat to your cheeks.

You kept your back to him, but turned your head, daring to watch his face as you slid your dress off your shoulders and let it pool around your hips. Ivar was resting back against the headboard now, blanket pulled up barely to his hipbones. His jaw was dropping as his eyes roamed over your body. “ _Glæsilegt_ …”

 You felt that tingling at the back of your thighs again as you tugged the dress down further, showing him your ass as you stepped out of it as carefully as you could. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you heard him groan in appreciation. You knew you should feel ashamed, as Eve had when she learned she was naked before God, but you didn’t. You felt glorious, powerful even, as you turned around and watched this conqueror’s face melt at the sight of you. You decided to echo his own words back to him. “You may look at me as much as you like,” you said, adding a hasty “my Lord” to the end of your sentence when your nerve ran out.

You busied yourself arranging your dampened dress by the fire, trying to pretend his eyes were not scouring your bare breasts, the curve of your hips. You hoped he was feeling as tormented as you had been since he made you undress him.

“You look cold, now, y/n,” the heathen called softly. “Come over here and let me warm you.”

A thrill ran through your body. The stone floor was indeed chilling your bare feet. There was nothing left to do but go lay beside him.

You tiptoed to the edge of the bed, heart in your throat. Ivar lifted the blanket and you tucked yourself underneath quickly, pulling the cover up to your chin. You were careful not to touch him, though your fingers were almost burning with the urge to do so.

Ivar looked down at you, one eyebrow lifted in amusement. He was still sitting up against the headboard. “What are you so nervous about?”

“I really am going to commit this sin with you, aren’t I?” you asked in a small voice.

Ivar slid himself down until his face was in line with yours. He lifted his hand, fingers splayed artfully,  and swept a strand of hair from your face. “You have already touched me, and I have already touched you. Did you like those things?”

You nodded, desperate to let him persuade you.

“Then what is the harm in doing those things for a little longer?” His fingers traced down your cheek, around the edge of your lip, and you felt yourself melting under his hand already. He pulled the blanket down from your chin, savoring every inch of skin that he revealed. His breath caught when he exposed your rosy nipples. You felt them harden from his gaze alone.

You thought he might stop there but he kept pulling that blanket off until your entire body was revealed to him. He growled appreciatively as he looked you over. You shuddered when his hand stroked over your sex. You were so excited you thought you might burst, but you were fearful too. You had heard that what men did to women often hurt.

Ivar stopped, looked at you carefully. “Would it help to kiss me again?”

You nodded with half a moan, finally finding the courage to reach up to his face, run your fingers through his loose, damp hair. His lips descended over yours, and his body moved to cover you a moment later.

He was so warm. You did not mean to be wanton, but his kiss relaxed you, opened you, and soon you were wrapping your legs around him and stroking the warm skin of his back and arms, pulling his body closer in to yours.

The ache between your legs was swiftly becoming overwhelming. You felt drunk with this desire; you thought that even if Madge threw open the door and caught you like this, you would be unable to feel ashamed, unable to tear yourself off this bed or out of the heathen’s arms. His hard cock was pressing against the side of your thigh and even that couldn’t scare you now; your animal self had taken over and you were ready for this man to make you a woman. Perhaps _his_ woman.

Ivar’s fingers crept down your leg and you tensed; perhaps not as ready as you thought. “Shhh…” he soothed in your ear. “Let me show you how good it can feel.”

He found the juice dripping from your center and started playing with you again, rubbing around the edges of your opening and up over that spot that made fierce pleasure spread under your belly. You clutched at him as he teased you, a needy feeling soon rising up to overwhelm you. You were not sure what you needed, exactly, but it was something you knew only he could give. His fingers started to circle that perfect spot and you could not stop from moaning, over and over.

“Is that it?” he asked. “Is that where it feels best?”

“Yes, my Lord,” you managed to cry, your whole body writhing now as some great big _something_ was building up under his fingers. You had overheard men in the throes of a passion like this, but you had no idea that it was possible for a woman to receive a pleasure so intense too.

Ivar’s face hovered over yours, pressing kisses into your mouth that you could barely keep up with. What was that mounting ecstasy he was creating in you, and what would happen when that wave broke? Your face screwed up at the overwhelming intensity of it.

Ivar’s voice was low and urgent. “Let it go, _elskan_.”

On his command you did, your legs seizing and shaking, your head flying back as a pleasure greater than you had ever imagined broke over your body. Ivar more fully onto you, holding you down as your body bucked through the glorious sensation.

It faded, slowly, and as you caught your breath Ivar pressed his lips to your ear. “Give yourself to me,” he whispered again.

You could barely deny him before, and now you could not even remember why you had been trying to. “Yes,” you sighed, relaxing into the mattress as he pulled his body over yours.

You came more fully into consciousness when you felt your conqueror lining himself up, pressing his blunt head against the wet slit between your thighs. “I am going to take you now, you should be ready for me,” he said. He ran his thumb across your cheek and kissed you soundly, just the way you had always imagined you would one day be kissed.

And then he started to push himself inside. You had heard women say that it would hurt and it did, but the pain was dull and Ivar moved slowly. You looked up at his angelic face, mouth hanging open, lost in the feel of you, and you did your best to welcome him in. The pressure eased after a particularly painful moment and then he slid the rest of the way into your body with the most delightful little groan.

“I knew you would feel good,” he murmured, “but this is even better…” he trailed off as he stared into your eyes, all pretense of arrogance or command gone. Right now you were just a man and a woman, a boy and a girl, joined together in the most intense experience you had ever shared with another human being. His blue eyes were looking into your very soul, just as you were staring into his, and you just knew that everything was going to be alright. You were not going to be punished for this. How could you be? It felt so right, his eyes were so soft…

He started to rock against you, creating a friction with his hips that intensified the glorious ache you felt as your walls stretched around him. His eyes were losing focus, lids falling down in the pleasure he was feeling. It was like the face he had made when your hand was on his cock, but so much more. He almost looked confused, lost in the pleasure. “How are you—“ he cut himself off with a groan. He started rambling in his own language, soft and awed, struggling to keep his eyes open so he could keep staring at your face.

His thrusting intensified and then it was hard to keep your own eyes open too, burning pleasure threatening to overwhelm all your other faculties. You gave up trying to control what kind of noises were coming from your mouth; some kind of soft wail punctuated by grunts every time his cock plumbed deeper into you.

Ivar buried his head in your neck, still whispering things you could not understand. Then he clutched at you and keened, his hips stuttering in their rhythm as he forced his way even deeper inside you. He was tense and still as he gasped a few more breaths, then he sagged and collapsed, nuzzling his face behind your ear.

You both laid there wordlessly for a while, trying to remember how to breath. You could still feel his cock inside of you but the pressure had eased; there was no pain anymore.

Prince Ivar inhaled deeply against your skin, then pulled his softened cock from you and rolled over onto his back, one arm thrown over his face. You watched his chest move for a while, waiting for further instructions. None came.

Finally you rolled onto your side, covering your chest with your hands. “What happens to me now?”

Ivar bent his arm up behind his head and scrunched his eyebrows at you, like he had no idea what you were talking about.

“Now—now that you’ve have your way with me, what happens to me next, my Lord?”

Prince Ivar raised an eyebrow. “Probably we sleep. Then I will most likely allow you to put your clothes on and get back to work tomorrow. Most likely.” He extended his arm, trying to gather you into his chest, but you resisted.

“The others will know what we have done, if I stay. I will be shamed.”

Ivar grimaced. “I do not understand you Saxons. Did you not enjoy this, what we did?” He trailed his fingers down near your womanhood, your soft moan an easy answer to his question. “Then what does the rest of it matter? If I put a baby in you then I will take care of that child, proudly. If you enjoyed what we did tonight, then we will do it again tomorrow night, and if you keep pleasing me I might even make you my woman and adorn you with gold, if you wish it. If your people will not take care of you, then you can stay with mine.”

Your eyes were getting wider and wider as he continued to speak. “You might… make me your wife? I might go with you when you leave?”

Ivar gave a cagey smile, one full of hesitations and easy affection. “I might. It is early for promises.” He lifted your hand and threaded his fingers between yours. “But I have never felt anything like how that just felt with you.”

“With Saxon princes, it is not possible, for someone like me to become a wife,” you explained. Your heart was swelling now, to know that if you let Ivar make you his mistress, as you were currently sorely tempted to, it might not end with your life in ruin by the end of the winter.

“Someone like you? What is wrong with you?” Ivar responded, face relaxed and curious.

“I am only a serving girl,” you shrugged, almost giddy at the thought of being among a people where that fact did not determine everything about your path. “I am fit to serve a nobleman’s table, but not to sit at it.”

Ivar rolled over on top of you, his gorgeous face beaming with affection. “If I ever decide to let you out of this bed, y/n, you will be welcome to sit at my table.” He pulled you with him as he rolled back, settling your cheek on his shoulder and laying back with a satisfied groan.

You fell asleep imagining what the looks on the other girls’ faces would be like if Ivar the Boneless ended up making good on that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious to know what everyone thought was going on in Ivar's head during all of this. I tried to be subtle and not telegraph his perspective. Please, if you feel like leaving your thoughts in the comments, the feedback will help me become a better writer and hopefully improve my subtlety.


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